What will it be, thought Ron. Perhaps a ball with John, or maybe conjuring that hot party she went to in L.A., that den of inequity with all the drugs; hell, anything was available from hashish to hard acid. No, thought Ron, she wasn't quite through with John left. There was more to that story.
But Ron was a bit preoccupied at that moment by her own reflection. Who knows, maybe she was falling in love with herself after all, she loved her body. She liked carrying her weight, liked the way her skin felt all over. She even liked the manner in which her tits flopped against her midsection. But was that love? – she wasn't ready to ponder the imponderables.
You are one broad; she said almost out loud. At that point, she squeezed against the mirror, more effectively flattening her knockers than any of the inflamed attempts of the myriad of studs. No, she knew when, how and where to press. She'd never seen flattened nipples before and it fascinated her. Ron liked the way they became redder, right in front of her very eyes. She imagined they were two red eyes. They spoke to her. They told her she was one sexy bitch. "Oooh," she moaned – this time completely out loud. Ron could see that her breasts were spread out so that they bulged out her sides, two sacks of pleasure flesh, seemingly bursting out ward. Observing the top action, the woman suddenly wished she could stick her cunt on the reflector and have it come back at her. That was it; she wanted to be fucked by her own cunt (amazing what these electronic devices can do for a woman).
Ron felt the curve of her hip then pushed her hand around her front until her curly, dark pubic hairs were parted by the probing of her fingers. She wanted to be inside herself again, to finger fuck until her imagination would take over and bring her back to John.
How had she become so horny? Maybe it was her environment at work, the sterile contrast from her pastoral – intellectual life upstate in the East, maybe it was the fact she knew everyone in that insurance office had action on their minds. No, she'd never forget the first day on the job. Being attractive, standing out in more ways than one, she found every male trying to orient her with their foolish excuses. John had come in, asking if she knew where the water cooler was. He brought Ron over, then asked her out, just like that. He didn't believe in the old beat around, just right to the heart of the matter, as if he didn't want to waste his time by pecking up the wrong branch. Mr. Danielli, now there was a case. One afternoon Ron spied him in, to put it diplomatically, an excited state: "Please do not disturb" said the sign on his door, "disturb" (if your name is Veronica) maid the sign on his face. Perhaps he unconsciously left his door open, but for whatever reason, the crack was just wide enough for Veronica to get the idea. He was just sitting at his desk, arms wrapped around the back of his head, but protuberance clearly visible in his pants, just sitting there.
Veronica, Ron, Vern, as the case may be, was in a dangerous mood and simply rose out of her seat and knocked at the boss' door as she quickly improvised an excuse to break his little dream state.
"Oh, Miss Jenkens."
He was a touch surprised.
Vern looked down at him. Sure he was a bit hot with his cock between his legs and his hands in his pockets as if making a shrewd move of a cover-up. "Miss Jenkens, will you take dictation?"
"No, but I'll take a dick," she thought.
That's when she knew what the insurance business was all about.
Or, the first office party – holiday spirit and all that sort of thing, letting loose when the clocks are disconnected, a little raz-a-ma-taz and all that jazz. Not one of the execs was happy: that was the lesson. Vern soon came up with her own theory. The higher you go up the ladder of success, the worse the marriage. Jenkens law. Administrative assistant: "Hey, Vern, would you like to go out with me, I mean, just to get away from the office for the party, you know what I mean."
Assistant Vice President: "Miss Jenkens, I'm free tonight, this evening to be exact. How about coming around to my private apartment."
Vice President: "Fool around?"
President: no verbiage necessary.
And our friend Vern had gone the whole (hole) route. But more of that later.
For now, Vern confronted herself in the mirror, liking and positively turned on by what she saw. After all, she thought, I'm not a bad piece of ass. Vern slid down the edge of the mirror until her buns rested on the hard part of the floor where the rug ended but the wall did not begin. Nice, really nice, she thought. Vern didn't mind the hard, cold floor. Vern didn't mind being alone. Vern was a piece of ass.
Back in her car with her John, Vern's imagination was able to sequence the events with more detail. A simple ball was not the end of it and for that matter was not even the beginning of it. John had reached a height of passion he'd never experienced in the past. It got to the point where the stud couldn't hold his energy down. Slithering around the seat, he soon lost all restraint, digging his teeth almost painfully into our young friend. He worked his way down from her nape until he reached the lovely large part of her upper chest, just where her breasts began, the place which gets tan while the more scrumptious parts are hidden. He reached below that point, passed the Mason-Dixon dividing white from tan then made for the sure ground of her womanhood. Pushing her left tit upward, he made contact with an open mouth which was just able to take in the tip of the iceberg. He heard the girl moan and tried to take in more at the same time he readjusted his legs so that they were so intertwined with Ron's as to allow freedom to kick and cavort to taste. The rain began to come in torrents, smashing against the windows until it would have been impossible to see two feet outside (if they'd care to look).
"I'm gonna fuck you everywhere!" he groaned out. Vern noticed that the softest part of the sentence was "I'm" so she knew he meant business. She had to admit, he was the greatest ball to date, even if he wasn't a top-level exec (small chickens actually, middle management).
Vern felt his hands move in fast motion from the front of her chest, down below her navel and through her mat to the slit below. The man opened her up as if possessed. She felt his hot, steamy breath go into her opening and penetrate her channels at the same time she was aware of the intensity of pressure around her neck. It was a trip to feel his man hands manhandling her delicate neck. She did have a delicate neck. It wasn't a scrawny neck, but it was a delicate neck, a feminine neck. He'd even told her she'd a nice neck, but she barely paid attention, so enraptured was she in carnal pursuits.
"Ravage me, go animal, go animal!" She'd said with more air than chords – or perhaps it was airy chords. She felt his hand move down and his tongue lubricate her already moist insides, his saliva mixing with her woman juices, creating an ambrosial fluid which John imbibed with greedy passion. Veronica almost wished she could go down on her own pussy, but aware of the impossibility of the fantasy, settled for some nice thick cock – he did have an exceptional cock.
Veronica knew it was a natural high – no drugs, nothing artificial except that big, manly body. He was a specimen of a man: big, thick thighs covered with black hair; swollen, distended balls, and an Olympian cock; to say nothing of his massive shoulders and a chest which resembled a rain barrel – after The Flood. He was all hers too, or at least that's what she thought at the time, a prospect, a fancy, a desire which satisfied her enough at the time.
She knew the stud was about to come when he started to grind his teeth (a tip she'd picked up in a powder room a long time ago – one of those drunken affairs when the ladies, especially the older ones, start babbling about the mouth). When the teeth grind and a man starts to sweat in funny places (like the upper and lower lip, or the navel) then there's no two ways about it: prepare for the explosion.